


Bordellos, Brothels and Berries, Oh My!

by kristin



Category: Pushing Daisies
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-17
Updated: 2010-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-13 17:49:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristin/pseuds/kristin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The facts were these. One day, three hours, seven minutes and six seconds ago one Madam Beatrice Bethany Comfort, owner, proprietor and, yes, Madam in the less respectable sense, of the famously infamous Madam Beatrice’s bordello, a brothel, walked into her boudoir to find a shocking scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bordellos, Brothels and Berries, Oh My!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hllangel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hllangel/gifts).



When Olive Snook, former jockey and current Pie Hole hostess, waitress, and occasional witness to the mysterious going-ons within the confines thereof, was 32 years, 12 weeks, and 6 days old, she had a brilliant idea.

“Emerson, I’ve had a brilliant idea,” said Olive as she slid to a stop, seating herself across from the professional private detective.

“No, you didn’t. You want to know why? A brilliant idea would have informed you that informing me of your brilliant idea was a bit less than brilliant as I am busy investigating Madam Beatrice’s Bordello, the famously infamous brothel,” said the detective, his tongue making quick work of the quirky words, before taking a bite of blueberry pie (a la mode, of course).

The facts were these. One day, three hours, seven minutes and six seconds ago one Madame Beatrice Bethany Comfort, owner, proprietor and, yes, Madam in the less respectable sense, of the famously infamous Madam Beatrice’s bordello, a brothel, walked into her boudoir to find a shocking scene.

For draped among her draperies, fripperies and large lace collection was the body of businessman Bruce Bannercourt. His body had suffered from what the coroner called a case of accidental erotic asphyxiation. His business, on the other hand, was now suffering from shame.

Bannercourt’s Children’s Castle was a successful chain designed to create a place for children to play while parents were pampered. With its faux fantasy theme for kids, and soothing decor for the adults, Bannercourt’s had a lot to lose if the support of the PTAs was lost. So to forestall a scandal of the sexual variety brought about by the death of the founder and president in a bordello, the board of directors brought in a private dick, to whit, one Emerson Cod.

"Now where is Ned? We need to go see about solving this sex scandal," said that same Emerson Cod, peering over his coffee mug and now demolished slice of pie.

"That is all well and good, but I am really not feeling the love here. You have time to regale me with your tawdry tale of bordellos and creepy kid's castles, and yet you simply can't wait around to hear about my brilliant idea?" asked Olive, pointedly not answering the question Emerson had presented.

So with a roll of his eyes and fake smile plastered upon his face, he replied, "Olive, my dear, why don't you tell me your brilliant idea?"

"No, I rather think I won't. That is to say, I doubt your desire to listen is anything like sincere. Really, your whole face is bordering on sarcastic, so I don't think I shall."

"Fine by me. Bring me Pie Boy and we'll call it a draw."

"He and Chuck are engaging in one might call a quickie, if most one's quickie's involves a new delivery of industrial-sized rolls of plastic wrap." Olive smiled while watching that thought sink into the mind of Emerson Cod. His expression grew drawn.

"Now that was just cruel and unusual, woman! Why in the world would you tell me something like that?"

"Ha, now you want to know my brilliant idea to distract you from those thoughts I see you thinking. Plus, their quickies aren't actually so quick as they require some prep time. I win!" With that last thought she raised her fists above her head in a gesture of triumph.

"I won. I won, I won, I won." Olive danced about in her seat, singing the words more than saying them.

"I am just going to take myself out of here, then, find something else to distract me from the thoughts of not-so-quick quickies." With those words, Emerson stood. He patted his inside pocket, where, unbeknownst to the little waitress, lay a skein of wool ready to be knitted. A perfect way to empty the mind while not wasting valuable time.

"But don't go!" cried Olive. She reached out her hand to settle on his sleeve. He, however, kept walking, not even noticing she was attached.

"What do you mean, don't go? Didn't you hear me, I have places to go that aren't here with the thoughts about the things I really don't want to be thinking about."

Pushing her feet down like brakes, she stalled the tall detective. "But my brilliant idea!"

"Yes, that idea that is so built up by now, nothing will be brilliant against its ideal, so don't bother to tell me, because I ain't listening anymore, but leaving."

"But I need your help to implement the idea and turn into more of a thing and less of a thought." Olive was losing ground now. She kept her grasp firm, which led to the detective dragging her along with him.

"All right, go on, how do you need my PI skills?" asked Emerson, hoping that those skills might lead to some cash.

"Well, it actually has less to do with your PI skills and more of your skills as a private dick. Meaning, I have questions of a more personal nature, related to your relationship with Simone."

"Tell me you did not just say that, Itty Bitty." Emerson’s face was a picture of what could only be described as unamused.

However, the hopes of Emerson Cod were dashed. For indeed, his Itty Bitty had indeed ‘just said that.’

***

The facts were these. One week, four days and eight hours ago, Olive had been sitting in her room, reading a book: _The Tower_ , by one B.B.C. This was not a publication of the British Broadcasting Channel, and indeed, if they deigned to notice it, they would probably not option it. For the tawdry tale was full of ravishments, dashing men and beautiful women, all revolving around the titular tower, where sexual escapes of the sort only shown in soft-core (or harder) occurred.

She was enjoying the book, as well as the feelings it brought about, when she was startled by the sound of someone walking in. Pulling her hands above the cover, she shrieked.

"Olive, it’s just me."

The me that was speaking was indeed one Charlotte "Chuck" Charles, the Alive-Again woman. (Though, this, of course, was not something of which Olive was aware, thinking Chuck had simply faked her death in some sort of insurance scheme.)

"You startled me."

"I see that. Though I didn't see anything else. And even if I did, while not meaning to, sneak a peak at something that most people consider to be private, I certainly don't judge or care." Chuck’s face revealed her lie with its blush. For she had seen something occurring under the covers.

The color of Olive’s face grew from a soft flush to a hard burn as she said, "Well, a woman's sexual tension needs to be relieved somehow, even when her significant other is sickly and often indisposed."

"Randy Mann not living up to his name?" asked Chuck with a snicker.

"Oh, he is lives up to it quite well and often. But he also travels, or goes down with the gout, which means I am not seen to as much as I might want." Olive, you see, had decided that frankness was the way to navigate these awkward waters.

"I understand. Believe me, I do," said Chuck fervently, for she was having her own problems in that department.

Her embarrassment abated by the candid response from Chuck, Olive let her curiosity take her tongue's reins. "What are you doing here so late?"

"I came to beg a bed. The plastic divider got torn in some way and now is apparently not a secure enough defense against a touch that could lead possibly, or even probably, to death on my part."

"You couldn't take the couch, or make him?" asked Olive.

"It was an impulse decision. I was tense, in more ways than one, when Ned put a halt to the proceedings. So when the rip cut me off, I got rather hot under the collar and stormed out."

"That makes sense," said Olive, who was rather familiar with impulse, not to mention dramatics.

"But I am sincerely sorry to have startled you, not to mention the interruption," said Chuck, bringing the conversation back around to where it had begun.

"Well, what's done is done." This, in fact, was a lie. Because while Olive had started before being startled, her body was telling her it was far from finished with the proceedings. So when Chuck left for some evening ablutions in bathroom, the pint sized pie waitress set about to finishing. To recover the mood she started reciting passages from the aforementioned _Tower_.

> "The Viscount reached down a hand to rest on her skirts. Rita wriggled, in what she convinced herself was an escape attempt. It had nothing to do with pressing her hips up towards the pressure..."

Unknown to Olive, on the other side of the door stood Chuck, listening to the tale. She too, had been left undone. And hearing the story of the ravishment of Rita, she also began to be back in the mood. But thinking the awkwardness of another accidental interruption could not be worse than earlier, she entered before anything, or one, could come of it.

Seeing her, Olive’s voice trailed off.

"Oh, don't stop," said Chuck shyly. For though she had thoughts about how these events would unfold, she wasn’t sure how well it would be accepted.

"Really? Don't you think that is a bit strange, even for us? Because at this point my personal time interruptus is a bit too close to be halted."

“Then don’t,” said the girl named Chuck. For she, too, wanted to finish. Her skin was burning with want and that delicious tingling was close to reaching her toes. No, no, she didn’t want to stop. So she sat on the edge of the bed, while Olive stayed under the covers.

Now Chuck and Olive both continued what they had been doing, just now, together. Making simultaneous movements, each on their own self, they began to speed up. Olive stopped reciting the tale of Rita, just concentrated on the feeling of her hand on her clit, and, to a slightly lesser extent, on the form of Chuck, sitting before her.

Now Olive Snook was not thinking, just working on instinct when she reached out her free hand and placed it on Chuck’s bare arm. When Chuck felt the brush of skin against skin that had been so long denied in any of these sorts of doings, she couldn't help herself, and came. One minute, and nine seconds later, Olive Snook came too.

***

Back in the Pie Hole, Emerson Cod was wishing that rather than coming, there was some going going on. Because there were some things he did not wish to know about what his friends did.

"So you see, things have been awkward since then," finished Olive. "And while a good time was had by all, I want to make sure awkward was only a one time thing, if you know what I mean."

No answer followed.

"Emerson?" she asked, "Now that I have given you the background deets, you will understand why this brilliant idea is so timely."

The private dick, however, was not paying her any mind. For his mind was taken up with such thoughts that his tongue wouldn't work. So instead he thought pointedly about things like baseball and former British Prime Ministers, not about Olive and Chuck and what they had done together that night. Finally, his composure regained, he simply said, "No."

"How isn’t it timely?"

"No. As in, no, I ain't going to share anything about Simone and I, and any relations we may or not be having, if that is what you think of as friendly sharing," he replied. "And has Randy Mann heard this story yet?"

"Oh, yes. He not only said it was fine, he then showed me how much he thought it was fine, which was another hint that led to my brilliant idea.” Olive’s enjoyment of that occurrence was apparent in her tone.

This information, I am afraid, did not help her case with Emerson Cod. "OK. I give up; what is your brilliant idea?"

"I am going to buy Chuck and Ned some bondage gear. Maybe some of those full body leather things. That way they can have fun without worrying about rips. They must be much more sturdy than plastic sheeting."

"And how the hell does that involve needing my help?" asked Emerson, his voice rising in pitch.

"Actually, all I need to know is where you get the things you use when you are ‘relating’." Olive emphasized the last word with fingures indicating quotation marks.

"No." Emerson didn't wait before continuing. "No, I will not tell you. Or even give you Simone’s number so she can say. Not that she would know. And on that note, why the hell would you think we would have that knowledge!"

"You're not making any sense. Also, yelling," said Olive, a little abashed.

"Itty Bitty, this is a place for pie, and occasionally a nice, wholesome murder. It is not the place for the thoughts I have been thinking this morning. It is no wonder I am all discombobulated."

"But Emerson-"

"I have to be able to think. I have a murder to solve," he said, as he walked to the door, dislodging Olive’s hand in the process.

"Well, if I solve the murder, then will you tell me?" she asked.

"Sure, fine, whatever," exclaimed Emerson as he exited the Pie Hole, eager to get away from Olive and the thoughts she had made him think.

***

Two hours, five minutes later, Olive Snook found herself unraveling. Not her personality, but a bit of the lace that covered her seat. She kept twisting it this way and that in order to distract herself from what she found herself doing.

What she was doing was this: Olive, determined to discover the source of the best bondage gear, had decided to solve the murder in order to win the secret. As she did not have much practical PI training, and as her finger contained no life-bringing magic (not that she knew that was a possibility), she decided her best course was to go undercover. Therefore she applied to for the listed position of Trained Massage Therapist at the famously infamous bordello.

"Well, this is pleasant. Not at all what I was expecting." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Olive Snook wished they had never slipped out. And she was correct, for the reply was swift.

"And what were you expecting, Miss Patty Boots?" asked Madam Beatrice Bethany Comfort, madam of the famously infamous brothel, Madame Beatrice's Bordello. She was a sturdy woman, with a grandmotherly face. Her soothing countenance and motherly appeal were one of those things that had not been expected by Olive.

"Well, you know, from all those news reports you would think this was a nefarious spot with whips and chains and such," said Miss Boots, who, in truth was really Miss Snook.

"Well, I think you find this to be a very pleasant workplace, indeed. No need to worry about a thing. Isn't that right, Ferdinand?" Beatrice nodded to indicate the shadow that loomed by the doorway. "No one messes with anyone here, not with our bodyguards about."

"I thought I read something about a murder?" asked Patty, née Olive, with a smile.

"Nothing for you to worry you, my dear. More tea?"

"Oh, yes, please." Olive held out her cup. It was filigreed with lines all across, "Like lace."

"Are you a fellow lace lover?" Beatrice asked as she poured. Her own love of lace was readily apparently, as skeins of thin thread sat in baskets, while the room itself was decorated with lace doilies, curtains and tapestries. Even the chairs upon which they sat were covered it lace patterns.

Now, Olive did love lace, at least to look at. However, she did not want to think about the threads at that moment. Not after remembering Mr. Bruce Bannercourt, who had ended his life in this very building, entangled. Instead she changed the subject, though, it must be said, without subtlety. "So, when can I start? And as to the finishing touches of the massages..."

***

Having been assured by that same Madam that the massage she would give would sans happy endings, merely prep for clients before they retired to one of the brothel's many bedrooms, Olive Snook was eager to start as soon as possible, in order to solve the murder ASAP as well.

And so it was that she found herself, one hour, thirty-nine minutes later, preparing her massage room. But when she reentered after acquiring more aromatic oil, under her sheet she saw some things, or rather, some _ones_ she really did not expect.

Her cry of "Ned! Chuck!" overlapped with those same individuals saying her name in equally-aggrieved tones. All three ended up on the words 'What are you doing here?' simultaneously.

"You first," said Olive, her tones still colored with surprise.

"We're here investigating the murder of Bruce Bannercourt," said Ned.

"We are undercover," said the girl called Chuck, aka the Alive-Again Avenger, with more than a smidgen of glee.

"Well, that much was obvious, but what are you doing _here_ ," replied the itty bitty PI (in-training.) "I can't really interrogate customers about the goings-on, if the customers I am massaging are undercover as well as under the sheets."

"You are interrogating people? More to the point, you are massaging people? Here?" asked Ned. His voice was high enough to verge on cracking on the last word.

"Don’t look so scared. I’m not leaving your employ. I’m undercover and just massaging, not _massaging_."

"Really, so no cherry on top of the massage," said Chuck with a smirk. “Not even for us?"

"We are on a case. No one is doing anything with cherries except baking them into pies. There will be no absolutely no massaging and actually, I’d feel more comfortable if there was more clothing and less sheeting involved in this undercover operation."

"I don't know, looks pretty good to me," said both women at once, giggling.

"But we do need to discover what was done to Bruce Bannercourt, and for that matter who did it," continued Chuck. So she stood up, letting the sheet slip off. Neither Ned nor Olive averted their eyes.

"Well, this is just some prime investigating time, then. Because I am supposedly giving you a massage, but since that apparently isn't happening-"

"No, it is not," interjected Ned.

"I have some time to spare to snoop around with you," finished Olive.

"Very true. Aren't you coming?" said Chuck, who was now rather more covered, having put on her dress. She was paused at the door, preparing to spy on the happenings there at the famously infamous bordello. The last was said to Ned who was still clinging to his sheet rather tightly.

"Oh, come off it," said Olive, "do I need to turn my back?"

"That would be the lady-like thing to do."

"More modesty than this place has seen in a while," said Chuck.

"Really, Sally in room 4B is a never-nude, I hear. Apparently some people really go for that. The lure of what they can never have, I guess." But while Olive was conversing with Chuck, she neglected to turn away, too caught up in the words.

And so the body-shy Pie Maker still stood as stock still as he could, keeping a grasp on the sheet, until Chuck decided that just wouldn't do. "Olive," she said, "could you please bring me that sheet?"

With a wicked grin to match Chuck's, Olive did what she asked. She pulled on the sheet, while Ned held fast, leading, of course, to a mini-tug-of-war. Finally Ned gave way to the jockey-trained grip of Olive's hands, and he was left standing, quite naked.

"Seriously, why would you do that? And don't think I can't see you laughing, or forget who asked her to do that." Ned objected not only to the nudity, but also because it was cold.

"The look on your face---" "It really is priceless-” came the merciless responses. The two of them laughed as the Pie Maker quickly began to pull on clothes ‘til he was covered. But before he was done, Chuck herself had a brilliant idea. "Olive, will you do something else for me?"

“Sure, of course, well, as long as I can.” Olive waited for a second. “It would help if I knew what you were asking me to do.”

Chuck’s voice was soft, as this request might cross the line. But the girl called Chuck was living her second chance at life, with the emphasis on living. She did not censor her idea, and so she said, first to Ned, "I am sorry you were embarrassed by that, I really didn't mean to offend. So, please take this as an apology and not an affront.” She paused before swiftly saying, “Olive, would you please go over and give him an apology kiss from me."

The other two just stared for a moment, struck by the thought of what she had suggested. They all looked at each other in turn.

"Will this be another one of those things that seems fun and like an altogether good time until the awkwardness of the morning after?" asked Olive.

"No, of course not. There will be no awkwardness. And if you want to forget that I ever said it go right ahead."

"Do I get a say?" Ned broke his silence. He was still partly undressed, sweater swinging in his hand.

"Of course you do!" The reply came in stereo.

"OK," he said, after spending a moment in which he found no objections.

And so Olive walked over, slowly, like Ned was a finicky race horse, giving him time to bolt. When she reached him, forty-three seconds later, she carefully stood on her tipiest of toes, while he leaned down. Olive dropped a quick kiss on his lips, soft. Just an apology, nothing unseemly, before they both pulled back and turned to face Chuck.

Then Olive did something she hadn't been asked to. She carried kiss from the Pie Maker's lips and equally softly deposited it again on the mouth of the girl called Chuck, pushing her down to approximate the angle.

At that moment all three expected something to happen. For Olive to throw herself at the Pie Maker, for Chuck or Ned to fly into jealousy. But none of these occurred. Should they laugh?

Unsettled by the silence that captured the room like heat in a sauna, Olive exclaimed, "Well, murders to solve and all that. They still think I am in here, so really, perfect time to go snooping." She let out a giggle.

"Right! Murder, mayhem and lace. We should go and tell Emerson what we've discovered."

"Actually, where is Emerson? He said he would come find us."

"Well, then, I must really skedaddle, as he might not be aware that I am on this case. His instructions weren't really clear in that regard." And with those words, Olive exited, leaving behind the lovers who never could kiss without something between them. Remaining there, too, was the idea that maybe that something between them could be a someone.

***

Olive Snook had never had a fondness for sneaking. She preferred dramatic confrontations to whispers and secrets. However, when one was the Itty Bitty of a private investigator, one did what one had to to get the scoop. At this moment she found herself practicing her spying in the lace-bedecked boudoir of Beatrice Bethany Comfort, madam of Madam Beatrice's Bordello, the famously infamous brothel.

Unfortunately for Olive, she was not alone. She could see through the lace curtain covering the door, a large shadow was looming, and growing ever larger as its owner approached. Olive snuck down below the bed, cringing as she went. She thought she might find a cache of toys there, of the adult variety. Instead, she once again found Madam Beatrice nothing like she expected.

For under the bed were boxes, not filled with toys that ran on batteries, but pages and pages of scribblings and writings. Wriggling around so she had clearer light, Olive Snook read something that made her cry, "Jiminy Christmas!" perhaps a bit too loudly. Knowing her mistake, she watched with fear as the shadowed figure loomed larger until it bent down and peered into her hiding place.

"Whatever are you doing in here?" asked Madam Beatrice.

"Oh, first day jitters, you know how it is." Olive smiled in a way she hoped was winning and not just wretched.

"That sure is some stage fright if it caused you to scurry all the way from upstairs, into my private room and then under my bed." Madam Beatrice's smile was not winning at all. In fact, one might describe it as feral. Her grandmotherly face was crinkled up so shadows filled her wrinkles.

Olive slipped out from the other bed and grasped her hand in a firm shake. "Sorry, I realize my hiding here is probably making you reconsider your deciding to hire me as the new licensed massage therapist, but I just wanted to do that before I was canned."

"You shook my hand when I interviewed you," replied the madam. Her voice was suspicious.

"Well yes, but then I didn't know that you were BBC!" exclaimed Olive. Her words began tripping out quickly across her tongue in an attempt to demonstrate her glee at the situation. "I really am ever much such a fan of your work. Why, the way you described Rita's ravishment by the possibly evil viscount in _The Tower_ gave me such shivers in all the best ways! Not to mention the later scene where we find he is actually the brother! Really, when they came to together it was so... inspiring." Olive trailed off as she thought about that excerpt, and what, exactly, that inspiration had wrought between her and Chuck.

“I’m always happy to meet a fan.” The madam’s smile seemed much more sincere now.

“Why the secrecy about your second job?”

"Let's talk." Madam Beatrice motioned Olive over to the chairs.

The facts were these. Beatrice Beth Comfort had grown up loving romance novels. So much so that by the time she completed her coursework at Scribe's College her collection of novels would not fit in any apartment. Having received a tidy sum from the sale of her first foray into romantic fiction, she invested in this property, which the realtor had told her was a former brothel. Unbeknownst to the then Miss Comfort, the ‘former’ part of that sales pitch was not a fact at all. Determined to make the best of her investment, and perhaps get ideas for new twists for her fiction, she decided to keep the bordello running.

"And so you see, being a madam is really just a side job, even if it is all the public thinks of me!"

"Well, I for one am glad you keep on writing. It can't be easy to keep all this going, with the girls and guys and murders, and all. Not and have time to write such excellent reading material."

"More tea?"

Olive, who was beginning to feel a bit sloshy from the amount she had already consumed, shook her head.

"Now, I couldn't help but notice the way your face fell when discussing the most recent escapades of Rita in the tower."

"It isn't anything against your writing. In fact, the only fault might be that it was a bit too exciting, Madam Beatrice."

"Please, call me B.B. and how could that hurt?"

"Well then, B.B., the fact of the matter is, I was having fun reading your book when a friend came in, and long story short, we both ended up coming. And then things got awkward as she has Ned and I have my Randy Mann." Olive said all this in a single breath, words rushing out.

B.B. raised her eyebrow. "Lucky girl."

"No, Randy Mann, with the capitals. While it can sometimes be a fitting description, it is his name all the time. Anyway, my friend and Ned, they have this problem. They can't touch."

"Oh, intimacy issues, my bread and butter," said Beatrice Bethany as she sipped her tea.

"Well, while it can put a damper on their intimacy, which is actually what caused this issue, they really can't touch for the fear of, well, death. Allergies, you know. And so I had this idea about buying them some things so they could get on, or off, really, without so many worries. But then something happened and now I think they might just want to use me instead of plastic."

B.B. was now taking notes. "Oh, really?"

"Which is its own kind of awkward as they are so much in love, which used to put a bee under my bonnet as I loved Ned, before, and well, while. And then Chuck and I did that thing to your fiction."

"Go on." For B.B. had not stopped her scribbling. The story of the supposed Miss Boots seemed to her to have the makings of a good story to repurpose.

"Actually, I think that about sums it. Do you have any advice for this sort of situation? Because both your professions seem rather suited for advising on this particular manner, what with the sex and the love triangles. Though none of us are related, I think."

"My dear Patty, I'm sorry to say I am not one to make plans for anyone else these days."

"Why not?"

Feeling the a well of compassion and kinship for the hapless Patty Boots (also known as Olive), B.B. decided to unburden herself as well. A day ago, shy Sally of 4B came crying to her. One Bruce Bannercourt, whom she had been seeing to, had done a bad thing. For Sally would not remove her left sock, something that enraged the businessman, for reasons of his own. Fearing for her life, she pushed him against the bed. So frightened was he by the attack that his heart gave out.

Now, wanting to save Sally from public scrutiny, while also adding some more fame to her infamous bordello, Madam Beatrice Bethany Comfort came up with a plan. She had bodyguard Ferdinand bring him to her boudoir, where they strung him up with lots of lace. (This, incidentally was from the plot of one of her earlier works, which still languished, unpublished.)

But now B.B. was burdened by guilt. She had read in the papers all the calls for the closing of the Children's Castle, and wished she had put more thought into her cover-up.

"But wouldn't there have been even more of a scandal if it was discovered he died while menacing poor shy Sally?" Olive asked after considering for a moment. "I think your planning skills are still equal to your plotting." For Olive this was a high compliment indeed. Why, in the novels of BBC, she actually did care about the plot, not just the porn.

And so Beatrice Beth, author and madam, offered her opinion.

Three hours, ten minutes and four seconds later, Olive Snook knocked on the door of the Pie Maker's apartment.

***

"I know you are in there," said Olive. Indeed they were, as well she knew, having accustomed herself to listening for the ringing of their slipper bells. "Please let me in."

The door opened, Chuck framed in the doorway. Ned was standing in the living room, a look of consternation on his face, which did not escape his waitress' attention. "No, we said no awkwardness."

"What awkwardness?" Ned sidled closer now.

"She's right, that is your awkward face." Chuck smiled at Olive and gestured her in.

Olive Snook, as previously mentioned, was not one for shyness. Instead of waiting for subjects to come, or for pleasantries to be exchanged, she dove right into the deep social waters of sexual discussion.

"I have a boyfriend, with whom I am not quite in love, yet, though the possibility is rising in probability. But we talked and he agreed. You are our friends and I think you need this. You are too touch starved, both of you. And sooner or later one of you will slip and touch someone you weren't supposed to, even though your hearts still belong to each other. Because plastic can be fun when used right, and love is almost enough, but somethings are better when you can feel. All of which boils down to: here I am. I can touch you, you can touch me."

A tense moment took over the entryway while they let the words, as well as the idea behind them, sink in.

Chuck’s face was grave as she replied. "I'll admit that my mind had been moving through similar thoughts. I can't not agree. Except, forgive me. I know you said you could possibly probably love Randy, but what about Ned, and your former feelings for him? I don't want you doing this to win him away. I love you both, but that would not work and I would need to say no if that was the reason for this."

"Not at all," Olive said certainly. "Maybe a few months ago, but no, not now. I would never ever try to win him that way."

"So what, we just, touch you, then you touch the other? And how often? I think we need to plan." Ned was tearing around his apartment until he found a pad of paper and pen. Digby was nipping around his heels, clearly sensing the tension and wanting to sooth his master while still staying a safe distance away.

"Come!" yelled Olive. And so Digby went to be cuddled by both her and Chuck. They both gave the dog some attention, ignoring Ned's frantic movements in the next room. Their arms brushed more than might be expected if it was accidental.

"Are you really OK with this?" whispered Chuck. "I know you might not want to say anything in front of Ned."

"While I can't be a hundred percent sure, at least not til we've tried it, I only got as much out of kissing him as I did from you." Olive’s voice was equally low.

Ned came skidding into the hall, his slippers jingling, interrupting the chat. "Yes, and are you sure about Randy and his reaction? I don't want sound jealous, or like that is my nature, but I would never let Chuck, or that is, would never want Chuck to do this for some other couple."

"Some other couple who couldn't touch or one of them would die? I think this situation is pretty distinct."

It was a distinct situation--one might even say it was strange, or perhaps unusual. Ned stood there, looking down at the women and dog, and just smiled. Not at the thought of the sex, as one might expect, but at the love he felt from all three. He might hate the fact that he and Chuck might never touch again, but when he considered the other possibility, Lonely Tourist Charlotte Charles never resurrected, Digby buried for years with his favorite bone--Olive, even, might not be there, if she hadn't tripped over Digby on her way past the Pie Hole and ended up applying. He could not imagine that life. So much love he would have been missing.

"Oh, that isn't an awkward face any more,” said Olive. She and Chuck were looking up at him with answering smiles.

"No, but it is still a face that acknowledges that I love Chuck in ways I don't always exactly love you. But the love is still there, so I don't want to hurt you.” Olive’s smile, which already seemed as wide as she was tall, grew even larger. For though she was over her once crushing crush, it was always nice to know someone cared. “If touch is so important we could always go back to Madam Beatrice's and buy some touching. And while that thought makes my skin crawl, I would rather do that than ever hurt you,"

"Or we still have more rolls of plastic, before it comes to that," said Chuck.

"I had a brilliant idea this morning. I was going to give you some toys so you could get on with your touching without worrying about dying. But I realized that wouldn't be the best gift. I'm not going to lie and say I never wished that Ned loved me the way he does Chuck, but this way I get both of you, if only for a little while. Just think, it can be either the Berry Berry Quite Contrary, or maybe just the Strawberry Peach Puff Pies, but how will we know if we don't try it?"

"I’m not actually sure what that means, though Berry Berry is quite delicious." Chuck wrinkled her nose in concentration, trying to figure out the connection.

“It is! You see Ned accidentally bought cranberries rather than blueberries, and so ended up just tossing it together. And somehow it worked and ended up on the menu. Now, not all experiments go so well, as witness by the fact that you had never heard of Strawberry Peach Puff Pies, but still it was an idea and we tried it. And maybe, like that, this thing will be a one time only deal, or maybe we will add it to the regular menu. And maybe my heart might get singed a bit, but I promise it won’t get burned. So don't you want to at least try?"

Ned looked again at Chuck, whose smile was very bright, and at the hopeful tint to Olive’s expression. How could he do anything other than echo his earlier statement of, “OK.”

And with that Olive rose from sitting to standing. One hand she extended down to Chuck, while the other found its way into Ned's grasp. Then together, all, three, walked down into the bedroom. Digby, however, was left out in the living room. He curled up on the couch and listened to the sounds of his favorite people enjoying each other, content.

***

The next morning, Olive Snook once again slid into a seat across from one Emerson Cod, private detective. His investigative skills keen, he noticed at once that she hadn't slept enough. The circle under her eyes were belied, however, by the wide smile on her face.

"This isn't going to be one of those chats where you over-share, is it?" he said cautiously. "Because I still need to discover who did Bruce Bannercourt in."

"The only sharing I will be doing will be just enough, not over, I promise. I solved your murder for you. I guess in all the excitement I forgot to inform you."

"Well, Itty Bitty, come on then. Tell me so I can go collect a payment,” said Emerson with glee.

And so Olive related the cause of the businessman's demise, with, of course, a few key omissions related to the relations she had had that past night.

"Oh, hell no," said Emerson, fervently. For no murder meant no fat paycheck for this case. And even if he offered Sally up to them, that scandal would be just as bad for his clients.

But Olive couldn't find it in her to be upset about the money. For in the kitchen were the Pie Maker and Chuck, smiling and giddy, touch-drunk. And later that day she was going out with her understanding Randy Mann. She thought she might bring along one of BBC's books in order to share some excitement, or at least get some fun ideas.

"Emerson, you want to know what? My brilliant idea wasn't really so brilliant. But I had a better one."

And indeed, she had.


End file.
